


Burn

by theonewithtwo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Parentheticals, BAMF Stiles, Explicit Language, Fire, M/M, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonewithtwo/pseuds/theonewithtwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fire destroys Derek's life the first time around, but maybe this time it'll give something back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd.

 

 

            It starts during summer break, which thank _fuck_ for that.

 

            He’s too wired on energy drinks and coffee during the school term to have a snow cone’s chance of noticing the signs.  And ok, even if he _could_ have, a group of wood pixies had decided finals week was a great time to hold their weird orgy-sacrifice Mid-Solstice festival on the preserve. He’d have traded a few charred bits of furniture for his History grade, anyday.

 

            So of course the first time it happens, they’re at Derek’s place.

 

            The pack is gathered in the still crispy-edged living room of the Hale house. Sometime in early spring, sentiment had won out over practicality and Derek had gotten rid of the loft. This means that most pack meetings are held while surrounded by lumber and construction tools.

 

           It’s only May, but there’s a haze of heat rolling through Beacon Hills and it’s sucked the energy right out of them. Stiles is sprawled on the floor beside the couch, his temple pressed against the leather. There’s a foot dangling a few inches above his face—Scott—but he can’t bring himself to care about potential werewolf sweatiness.

 

            “Oh. My. _God.”_ He’s not whining. He’s not. “I’m 96.3-percent sure I’m melting through the floorboards. Someone needs to go to the basement and put buckets under me so we don’t lose my teeth.”

 

            “It’s not that bad,” Issac murmurs from the armchair, though even from his spot on the ground, Stiles can see that the werewolf’s curly bangs are plastered to his forehead. “Just… don’t move.”

 

            Stiles rolls onto his side. “Aren’t werewolves supposed to run at a temperature of like, two-billion degrees? How are all of your organs not liquefied?” His shirt sticks to his back. “Or are you just non-stop healing? Can you even do that? Do you heal faster than organ liquefaction?”

 

            “Stop talking.” Derek this time. He grunts it from somewhere under the table where all their books and research are still scattered.

 

            Silence descends over the group again. Stiles resorts to staring at the slant of sun that’s inching its way across the floor. It’s too hot. Derek had pointed out that an A/C system would be pointless, what with the gaping holes in the walls and roof, but _damn_ , it wouldn’t kill a guy to invest in some fans.

 

           He refuses to believe he’s the only whining baby of the group, especially when he’s also pretty sure the air is on fire. And because he might be the masochistic type, and because they’re edging on two hours of doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing, he sticks a hand into the sunlight.

 

            It feels like he’s wearing a glove of heat. Stiles stares at bright light lasering onto his skin. If he were a vampire, would this be the point where he glitters them all to death? Or would he catch fire and explode like a wonderfully fleshy bomb? He frowns and backtracks. Wait, do vampires even _exist_? He’s lounging around with a pack of _werewolves_ that chased a mass of _pixies_ out of town two weeks ago. That’s got to upgrade the possibility of vampires from somewhere in the negatives to 40-percent. Although…what about _unicorns_?

 

            Stiles is about to share his revelations with the group, but pauses at a tingling sensation. He looks to his hand, the one hovering in the sunlight, and his fingers spasm as another twinge runs up his arm. And then his skin starts to smoke.

 

            And catches fire.

 

            He shoots to his feet. “ _Holy fuck, I’m a vampire,”_ Stiles screeches, trying to keep the flaming appendage as far away from the rest of his body as possible.  “ _Putitoutputitoutputitoutputitout—.”_   He’s flailing like his life depends on it because hey, he’s on _fire_. He knows he’ll think of some terribly awesome jokes for this when he’s a little less busy.

 

            Everyone’s on their feet now. Erica, who’s closest to him, reaches out to grab him but gets an elbow to the nose since Stiles is too busy swinging his hand because _why is he still on fire_ and _is vampirism an airborne disease._

            Finally, Scott just tackles him. They land as a mess of limbs, kicking up a tiny cloud of dust. “Dude, calm down!” He pins Stiles’s shoulders to the floor.

 

            “ _Putitouttputitoutputitout—.”_ A sharp sting across his cheek knocks him out of the loop. There’s a moment of quiet tension as he waits for his eyes to stop watering.  “What the hell was that for?! You’re not supposed to slap people who are on fire!”

 

            Scott shrugs his apology but looks like he’s contemplating a second slap. “You were freaking out.”

 

            “Yes,” Stiles says. “Yes, I was freaking out because _I was on fire_ , thank you.”

 

            If anything, Scott looks more concerned. “Did you take your meds today?”

 

            Stiles narrows his eyes. “I have ADHD, not insanity. Look.” he shoves his melted, fried, and oozing hand into his best friend’s face. “It’s—.”

 

            Totally fine.

 

            “I…” He flexes his fingers. The skin is flawless and intact, as if it hadn’t been alight just a second before. “It was…”

 

            Scott hauls him to his feet. “It was probably just one of those crazy vivid dreams.” He dusts his shirt off. “I get those sometimes, too. Must be the heat.”

 

            But it had felt _real_. Plus, one, he hadn’t been sleeping, and two, he had watched as his hand caught on fire. From _sunlight_. But all he says is, “Yeah. Bad dream. Sorry.”

 

            The pack slowly disperses, each of them shooting him strange looks.  It’s not until they’ve mostly resettled into their previous positions that Stiles realizes that one dark-haired, hulking werewolf is absent from the room.

 

 

(*****)

 

 

            The next time it happens, they’re trying to figure out how to kill the town’s newest supernatural guest.

 

            “We have chupacabras, but no unicorns,” Stiles mutters under his breath. “That’s a load of horseballs.”

 

            Peter doesn’t look up from his laptop. “Technically, they’re not chupacabras. They haven’t drained any of the nonexistent goats in Beacon Hills.”

 

            They’re crammed into Stiles’s room. By some wonderful stroke of luck, the monster has taken to stalking the woods around the Hale house, and has built a rather rancid-smelling nest in the basement. Which means more often than not, Stiles now has one Hale or another letting himself in through his bedroom window.

 

            “I thought we’d decided it was a Sigbin,” Scott says. His book is facedown on his chest; he gave up reading an hour ago. Presumably to text Allison instead, if the disgustingly cute look on his face is anything to go by.

 

            Derek, however, prowls in front of the window (ignoring Stiles complaint of “Take off your damn boots, or go stomp your frustration out somewhere else.”), stopping every now and then to stare out into the dark. “No. Silver doesn’t affect it.”

 

            Stiles doesn’t roll his eyes, but it’s a close thing. “Not everything supernatural is allergic to silver.”

 

            “It certainly fits the description of a Sigbin. Better than that of the chupacabra,” Peter says. “I don’t remember reading anything about a chupacabra walking backwards with—,” he makes a few clicks on the laptop. “—‘its head lowered between its hind legs’.”

 

            Stiles twitches in disgust. “Don’t—remind me.” He’d been the one to find the basement nest. And you couldn’t even call it a nest, not really, unless you also counted droppings and human limbs as proper bedding. There had been a weird stench seeping into the house, something that sat under the ever-present smell of smoke. At first, Stiles had figured it was from Derek’s lack of hygiene (it took the guy _months_ to get running water in the place) until he realized it was coming from behind the sort of caved-in basement door. Then he’d figured something had crawled in and died down there. Which wasn’t far from the truth, but after a week of the pack avoiding the place and then flat out refusing to visit, he’d thrown up his hands and fished out a flashlight.

 

            Scott grins, the asshole. “Why, because it clapped its ears at you?”

 

            He glares. “Yes, because it _clapped its ears at me_. That shouldn’t be biologically allowed! Ever! If it wasn’t so damn scary I’d laugh at how freaking ridiculous it is!”

 

            Derek’s growl interrupts them. “How do we kill it?” He stalks over to loom behind Stiles’s chair.

 

            Stiles rolls his eyes and swivels back towards his laptop. “How do we kill it, _please_. And grumpiness won’t do the trick, so lighten up, sourwolf.” He sees Peter smirk out of the corner of his eye. Clicking through a mess of PDF’s and poorly translated pages, Stiles says, “Supposedly, they were kept in clay jars as pets, which, Christ, says some fun things about the owner’s psyche. The bad thing about that is it kinda implies that it’s easier to just trap than kill them.”

 

            The menacing tension behind him intensifies, he assumes, with help from Derek’s eyebrows.

 

            “There’s only bits and pieces of info,” Stiles continues. “And I’m pulling this from like, ten different sources, but I think there _is_ a way to kill it.” He pushes his chair back, almost running over the toes of Derek’s boots, and faces the group. “We’re going to need a bloodless silver blade, a piece of the thing’s nest, clay dust…”

 

            “That’s not too bad,” Scott says.

 

            “…During a new moon.”

 

            Peter’s ever-present smirk breaks into a toothy grin. “Excellent.”

 

            They begin to file out of his room shortly after; Peter disappears out the window first, only pausing to give them a mysteriously knowing smile. Scott follows at a slower pace, looking between Stiles, who is typing away on his laptop, and Derek, who is glaring viciously at Stiles’s bookshelf.

 

            “See ya tomorrow,” Stiles says without looking away from the screen, and after a moment, Scott nods and leaps out the open window.

 

            He waits ten minutes, stewing in the weird tension of Derek’s anger and angst that permeates the room. When the werewolf doesn’t leave, he spins around in his chair with resolution.

 

            “Ok,” Stiles begins. “I’m really sorry about the other day. But you know me, I generally just say things without actually thinking it through first and that’s how I get into about 79-percent of every disaster ever. Not that I’m saying that as an excuse. Because I’m not. Just, I know it was crazy insensitive and totally not cool. Not enough A/C and caffeine, so you know, I was going slightly—.”

 

            “ _I saw it_.”

 

            “—…what?”

 

            Derek doesn’t turn away from the bookcase, but the muscles of his shoulders shift and bunch up under his jacket. (It’s Derek. Of course he’s wearing a leather jacket in the summer. He was probably _born_ wearing a leather jacket.) “I. Saw. The. Fire.”

 

            Stiles feels a little sick. “So I wasn’t hallucinating? Or we were both hallucinating. Or sharing a hallucination?”

 

            Derek finally turns to face him, expression thunderous. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyebrows do this complicated thing and _oh_.

 

            He feels even more nauseous at the realization. Being on fire pales in comparison to the fact that _he brought fire into Derek’s home_. Nevermind that it hadn’t been his fault the first and devastating time fire was introduced to Derek’s life, and it didn’t matter that he hadn’t intentionally set himself on fire the second time. No wonder why the guy’s been on edge lately.

 

            Stiles bolts upright. “Shit. I mean, _shit._ Dude, that was _never_ … I wouldn’t do that to you. I didn’t _mean_ to do that to you.”

           

            Derek frowns at this, almost like he’s confused, but he takes a menacing step towards Stiles.

 

            Stiles, who can’t help the involuntary step backwards, says in a very faint voice, “I’m not a vampire.”

 

            Derek’s looking at him weird. “A vampire…? What does—.”

 

            There’s a high-pitched, angry screech that echoes through the night air. It’s too close, far too close, and a second later a blurred-mass of fur and horns bangs into the window. It doesn’t manage to actually get into the room. But it’s plastered against the glass and smearing blood and goo all over when it opens its mouth again and bellows out a violent shriek.

 

            It takes Stiles a moment to realize that _he’s_ shrieking, too. One minute he’s expecting to get wailed on by an angry werewolf, and now he’s watching a mutated goat-cat-thing trying to get into his room so that it can gut them both. So cut a guy some slack, because he’s _not really equipped to do anything but_ _scream_ _holy shit that’s so disgusting oh God it’s trying to get in Derek it’s trying to get in Derek give me my bat it’s right behind you right behind RIGHTBEHIN—_

It crashes a claw through the glass and the sound echoes through his head with surprising clarity. Derek’s still not handing him his bat, he realizes faintly, but that’s ok because the werewolf is snarling and reaching clawed hands through the window to drag the thing down.

 

           It screeches again and Stiles’s vision and stomach does a weird flip. Something intangible tells him to _focus_ , so he does.

 

            Everything slows down until it’s like he’s in a sea of molasses, or like he’s in Mega-City One and high on Slo-Mo.  Stiles smiles at the thought, the action a lazy upturn of his lips. His gaze locks on the Sigbin in his window. It’s looking right at him, face twisted in animal rage, and Stiles _focuses_ and his eyes slide closed.

 

            When he blinks them open again, the thing is on fire.

 

            It takes Derek a moment to fully comprehend, but when he does, he jerks back from the window and lets go of the leg he’s grabbed. The thing writhes about on the window before dislodging itself. It takes off into the trees, big ears flapping and on fire, a glaring spotlight in the dark.

 

            He and Derek stare after it. “Those…those fucking _ears,_ ” he chokes out. Derek gives him a look that says _we’re not done_ here and then he’s out the window too, giving chase to the quickly dimming light in the distance.

           

            Stiles backpedals from the window and collapses onto his bed. He doesn’t bother closing the window because there’s no window left to close. There’re smears of blood and _don’t think about it_ on the wall, dripping down to the carpet. The shredded curtain twirls in light breeze. Stiles groans and throws an arm over his eyes.

 

            If the Sigbin, or Derek, doesn’t kill him, then his dad just might.

 

 

(*****)

 

 

            “We’re going to Deaton’s,” is all Derek rumbles over the phone before he hangs up.

 

            The vet gives him a thorough once-over and asks questions that Stiles isn’t crazy comfortable answering in front of Derek, but the guy refuses to leave his spot in the darkest corner of Deaton’s office.

 

            “I can’t say I’ve seen this often,” Deaton says, pushing up his glasses. “Only once. And she was much further advanced than you.”

 

            Stiles makes a face. “Hey, I’ve had…,” he waves his arms wildly. “ _This_. For only two weeks. I think. So I think it’s fair that I still seriously suck at it.”

 

            Deaton is contemplative. “I wouldn’t say this extremely rare,” he continues, ignoring Stiles’s interruption. “But rare enough that I can’t tell you much at the moment.” He looks between the two of them. “Come back in a week. I should have something then.”

 

            The vet is ushering them out the door when Derek asks (demands, really), “What happened to the girl?”

 

            “Hm?” Deaton blinks and says, “She died.”

 

 

 

 

            “That was very informative,” Stiles says as he buckles himself into the Camaro. “Now we know that I have a suspicious relationship to things catching fire, and that at some point, I’m going to die a violent, painful death.” He flops back against the seat. “So, essentially nothing we didn’t already know.”

 

            Derek puts the car into reverse. “You’re not going to die.”

 

            Stiles snorts. “Surprisingly, having things near me catch fire _isn’t_ equivalent to immortality. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s the opposite.” He shrugs. “Hey, I’ve accepted the fact. I mean, I somehow get personally acquainted with every spook passing through town; something nasty is going to happen to me eventually, and not in a good way. And we live in Beacon Hills. _Beacon_. Hills. If that’s not foreshadowing the rest of our foreseeable future, then…”

 

            Derek fumes as they navigate the streets, because it’s biologically impossible for him to do anything else.

 

            “But thanks for,” Stiles gestures expansively, “ya know. But I could’ve driven myself.”

 

            “And risk you crashing if something else catches fire?”

 

            Stiles puts a hand to his chest. “I’m shocked you care. And how do you know that _you’re_ not going to be the thing that catches fire?” It’s a massive misstep before the words even leave his mouth and he cringes.

 

            The werewolf looks skyward. “It’s _fine_ , Stiles. I’m not going to collapse into a sobbing mess every time someone mentions fire.” Except, see, Stiles isn’t so convinced because he knows what that nose twitch means and maybe he knows because he stares at the guy a little too much (but who wouldn’t, _really_ ), but hell if he’s going to admit that.

 

            He picks at a rip in his jeans instead. “So—o. Thursday night. The new moon. Are we good to go on killing the Sigbin?”

 

            “We don’t have the clay dust.”

 

            Stiles nods. “Right, gotta harvest it fresh and purify it.” The way Derek’s face scrunches up at “purify” shows just what he thinks of the ritual. Funny, for a guy whose vocabulary consists of grunts and glares, Derek’s expression says so much. “It won’t take too long. The preserve’s probably got some clay beds or something.”

 

            Stiles glances down at his phone. “We can probably finish before it gets dark, if you know where the rivers are.” He looks up. “What?”

 

            Derek’s eyes are still on the road, but he still manages to look questioning and annoyed at the same time.  “‘We’?”  

 

            “’Course, only if there’s food in it.” He grins. At Derek’s affronted expression, he says, “Hey, this girl ain’t easy! Manual labor is going to cost you at least two bags of curly fries.”

 

            “I don’t need your help.”

 

            “Except, you know, the fact that it has to be purified _before_ you dig it up, and before it dries. And who has the purifying text? That would be one, little ol’ Stiles.” He grins, triumphant. “So yeah, you’re getting my help. Oh, turn in here, turn in here!”

 

            Derek obeys, even if it’s clear that he’s wondering _why am I even doing this_ , and pulls up to the drive-through.

 

            And if the girl in the window takes a little too long flirting with Derek, the spontaneous combustion of her ponytail is in no way related to Stiles. The man raises one inky eyebrow as they pull away, but Stiles ignores him. Nothing gets between him and his curly fries.

 

           (At least that’s what he tells himself.)

 

 

(*****)

 

 

           “ _Jesus,”_ Stiles pants, and collapses onto his ass. “You know, for a were _wolf_ with super-strength, you’re surprisingly shitty at digging.”

 

            Derek only spares him an angry glare before turning back to the river. He’s shed his jacket and long-sleeve, leaving him bare from the waist-up with slick mud clinging to his arms. Stiles leans back on his elbows and watches as the werewolf slops another handful of clay into a bucket. He’s already gotten curly fries out of this deal, but he’s not about to turn down the view.

 

            “I thought you were here to _help_ ,” the man growls.

 

            Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and I’ve had to purify this plot three times already because _someone_ decided to find the claybank that was 99-percent _rocks_.” He smudges a hand across his forehead. “At this rate, we’ll have to purify it again just so we can be sure…what?”

 

            The other man is making a face that looks suspiciously like he’s holding in laughter while looking at…Stiles’s forehead. He frowns, looks down at his clay-encrusted hands, and then back up.

 

            “Oh, think that’s funny, do you?” He reaches into the water and pelts a handful of clay-and-rocks-but-mostly-rocks at the Derek’s smug face. The older man leans out of range easily because, _ugh_ , _werewolves_ , and reaches forward and shoves Stiles into the river.

 

            The water is shallow but it soaks through his jeans with a biting chill and he rolls out of the river with a yelp. He bumps into Derek’s knees and finds the man grinning widely, sharp teeth gleaming in the sun. Stiles glares, because he knows that clay is covering three-quarters of his body and he looks something not unlike Arnold post-Predator victory. “Nice try,” he says, and lunges forward.

 

            The momentum rolls them into the grass. They crush a few flowers before Stiles manages to get on top and straddle Derek’s waist. “ _Victory_!” he shouts, and gleefully lets his hands descend on Derek’s face. The man makes choked noises as Stiles smears clay over his eyes, nose, and stubble, but seems to accept his defeat with only a few annoyed swats at Stiles’s hands.

 

            “There,” Stiles says, leaning back to admire his work. Derek stares up at him, unimpressed. “Come on, don’t be like that. I have it on good authority that mud masques are good for the soul. I bet it’ll help with your frown wrinkles.”

 

            Derek huffs. “I do not have wrinkles.” And Stiles tries not to laugh, because _Derek_ , worried about _wrinkles._ Derek shifts, trying to untangle their arms. “But I appreciate the interest in the wellbeing of my soul,” he deadpans.

 

            “So ungrateful,” Stiles clucks. He pulls up tufts of grass and claps them to Derek’s sticky face. “There you go; much better.” Stiles smooths his thumbs over the arches of Derek’s cheeks so that the grass gives him a green pseudo-beard.

 

            It strikes him that off all the times he’s interacted with Derek, they’d never strayed from their unspoken You-Do-Research-And-I-Refrain-From-Murdering-You-When-You-Talk-Too-Much arrangement. There’s a bit of guilt and disappointment mixed up in the thought, that Derek’s not comfortable around him and pack to ever crack a smile that isn’t threatening.

 

            Derek breaks his thoughts. “We probably have to purify the plot again,” and Stiles is suddenly hyper-aware of his legs framing the other man’s waist and his hands cradling Derek’s face, staring into each other’s eyes like they’re in the middle of a shitty rom-com.

 

            “Shit,” he says as he shoots to his feet. “Shit. Shit.” He stumbles over to the buckets, muttering the purification chant under his breath as he thanks every God on earth that Derek can’t see him blush under all this clay.

 

 

(*****)

 

 

            “ _Fuck you!”_ Stiles screams. They’re sprinting through the forest, up and over logs and skirting brush. The Sigbin is somewhere ahead, crashing none too carefully through the trees.

 

            Derek is running parallel to him and barely out of breath. “ _Get out of here, Stiles!”_ he roars.

 

            Stiles leaps over a small stream and sticks the landing. “Fuck _you_ , you arrogant—,” he gasps a ragged breath. “Fucking _prick_. You don’t get to leave me behind because—,” he gulps in precious oxygen. “You think it’s fucking _dangerous!”_ He readjusts his sweaty grip on his bat.

 

            “I don’t have time to babysit you!”

 

            “ _Good!”_ Stiles yells, and the end of his bat sparks. “ _Don’t!”_ He pushes his energy into lengthening his pace and closing the gap between him and the Sigbin. He’s _human_ , not incompetent, not fragile, not _useless_. He’s saved Derek’s life—and the pack—enough times that this overprotectiveness routine was utter bullshit from the get-go.

 

            His bat sparks more violently and as he swings it upright, it bursts into bright flames that seem to pulse in sync with his racing heart. Stiles spares a glance at Derek, whose wide eyes are reflecting back the dancing flames. Strangely, it’s awe on his face, not fear or disgust, and something swells up in Stiles’s chest and he feels like he could just reach out and _kiss_ the man.

 

            “Good hunting,” Stiles shouts. He raises the bat above his head like a beacon and lets out a whoop as he peels off ahead after the Sigbin with renewed vigor.

 

            The answering howls of the pack are just an added bonus.

 

 

(*****)

 

 

            They chase the Sigbin to a rocky clearing, but its managed to disappear without a sign. Again.

 

            “ _Fuck_ ,” Stiles screams at the sky, ignoring the stabbing pain in his side. “Why can’t the thing just be _dead!”_

 

            For the moment, they pause to catch their breath and rest their aching legs (and if they linger a little longer than necessary, Stiles pretends its not for his benefit). He avoids looking at Derek now that the adrenaline’s drained away and he’s too sweaty and tired to risk another argument. Stiles rests his bat across his knees; its fire had died out a mile back.

 

            They prowl the area a little bit longer, until Derek pauses at a strangely shaped patch in the grass. He crouches and sniffs the air.

 

            Scott wanders over to stand next to Stiles. “What? Did you find something?”

 

            Derek puts a hand down to the muddy shape. “It brought a Djinn.”

 

 

(*****)

 

 

            They’re personally introduced to the Djinn when they track the blood puddles to a system of caves on the edge of town.

 

            Stiles tries not to refer to it as a ‘he’; the creature certainly _looks_ humanoid, but it also looks _wrong_. It phases in and out of sight, and has the pack on their knees with a simple flick of its wrist.

 

            “I have to admit,” it says as it circles them. “I had no intention of bothering with your wolf pack.” Derek snarls at it, but the Djinn simply waggles a mocking finger in his direction. “I have been following the Sigbin through three states now. They are _quite_ delicious.”

 

            Stiles gags at the thought. The pack is restless around him, trying to wolf out and struggling against invisible bonds. Scott is snarling next to him, the sound low and wet in his throat.

 

            The Djinn continues. “I do not normally linger in this realm, even if the…treats are well worth the effort.”

 

            “Nothing keeping you here now then, yeah? We’ve got nothing against you. We only wanted the Sigbin gone because it was killing people,” Stiles reasons. He can’t see the Djinn from his frozen position, but he hopes what he’s saying is having some kind of effect. “But you took care of that, so now we can both go back to pretending neither of us exist.”

 

            “You are lucky it did not spend the Holy Week in your town,” it muses. “Sigbins are rather partial to the taste of human children.”

 

            “Then thank you for getting rid of it,” Stiles says, trying to keep his voice even, and suddenly the Djinn is standing in front of him. They regard each other for a moment, before its eyes roll back into its head.

 

            “Stiles,” it says, rolling his name over its tongue like it was savoring a sweet. “You have been growing into yourself.”

 

           “Gross,” he says, because he has a death wish. “I’m flattered, but I general don’t go for guys that eat things that fly with their ears and stink like the guys’ locker room. Bad breath and all, you know.”

 

           It says nothing, only watching him with a slick, knowing smile.

 

           In a flash, Stiles realizes that Djinns are wildly and hopelessly beyond their weight class. Bordering on something God-like. He tries not to think about creation, because there’s no way to consider birth without death. He’s made his peace with the likelihood of an early grave. But death is somehow so much more terrifying when his whole pack is following.

 

           “What,” he chokes out. _How?_ “You—.” Faintly, he can hear Derek’s angry snarls and snaps becoming more agitated. “You did this.”

 

           The Djinn uncurls a hand and slowly tilts Stiles’s head up with fingers pressed firm under his chin. “Running with lowly wolves,” it returns. “Why?”

 

           “Go fuck yourself.” The touch is like warm honey on a burn. He tries not to lean into it, but he’s probably not doing a very good job of it, judging from the threatening sounds coming from Derek’s direction. “You’re not better than—.”

 

           “What _we_ are, Stiles,” it crouches until they’re nose to nose. “Is _fire_.” It breathes the last word as heavy gust of heat. “Smokeless. Scorching.” As he watches, its features distort and separate until there’s only glowing red fire, licking up towards the sky.

 

           Stiles is wide-eyed, sweat clinging to the tip of his nose. “Fire,” he repeats.

 

           The Djinn smiles, its mouth a gaping hole of swirling smoke. “That is why I am here.”

 

           So this is how he’s going to die; ripped apart and eaten by a psycho fire monster. He only hopes that he’s filling enough that it skips on eating the pack as dessert.

 

           “I have no intention of eating you,” the Djinn interrupts his thoughts. “Our kind is so few, already.”

 

           Stiles laughs. It’s a touch hysterical and he can’t bring himself to stop. “You…you think—I’m like _you?”_ he spits out in between hiccups.

 

            “Close.” It twirls away in a spiral of smoke. “Procreation is at best imperfect.”

 

            He feels his eyes almost bug out of his head. “ _What the fuck?”_

 

            “You will figure it out, clever Stiles. I would not have picked a lesser child.”

 

 

(*****)

 

 

            The Djinn is long gone but the heat still lingers in the air.

 

            Stiles is pretty sure he’s the only one who feels it, and that makes him feel weird and stretched out so he stumbles past the tree line and away from the pack to collect himself.

 

            He’s not surprised when he hears a twig snap behind him only a few minutes later. Stiles supposes he should be grateful that Derek’s even bothered to announce his presence.

 

            “It’s not going to come back,” Stiles says. He rubs numb hands up his arms, trying to reassure himself that he’s still in one piece. “It told me so. Telepathically. I think.” He lets out a bark of laughter.

 

            Derek is silent, but Stiles can feel the man’s gaze drilling into the back of his head. When it becomes unbearable, he turns to face him.

 

            There’s relief on the werewolf’s face, but also a mix of… _something_ that does nothing to alleviate the sense of dread building in his gut.

 

            “It’s not permanent,” he tries, thought neither of them really believes it. “Deaton will figure something out.”  

 

            “I’ll, uh. I’ll figure out how to control this thing,” he continues. “‘Cause I’m _clever_ _Stiles_ , always the first to figure out really horrible riddles. So,” he clears his throat, all the while avoiding Derek’s eyes. “I probably won’t be around for a while. Possibly a really long while. Though if you guys need research or whatever, you can still email me and I’ll send you stuff back. Digitally. Because that’s how email works.”

 

            He’s skirting around the real issue, around the fact that fire-plus-Derek is always going to be add up to some really painful memories. That he can’t risk hurting any of the pack with the unknown superpowers he’s got in his new party bag.  And he can’t bring himself to be the one that causes that pain, even if it means going back to the Scott-and-Stiles Show, but with much less Scott and much more Scott-and-Allison. So it’ll be just the Stiles-minus-Sidekick Show for the foreseeable future. He’ll deal with it.

 

            Stiles thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of rambling, when Derek is suddenly standing right before him, their noses almost touching.

 

            Derek’s voice is quiet. “I said it didn’t bother me.”

 

            Stiles snorts. He’s tired, way too tired, and starting to shake on his feet. “Yeah, not too convincing. It’s ok, man, I get it. No hard feelings.”

 

            “No,” Derek says, sighing. “Will you shut up about that. I don’t have a damn issue with fire.”

 

            Stiles frowns. “That first time, though. At the house. You disappeared pretty damn fast. Not that I blame you.”

 

            Derek makes a sound of agitation, as if dealing with Stiles was like dealing with a small and very slow child. “You don’t _get_ it.”

 

            And that pisses Stiles’s off, because his whole reputation is built on _getting_ _it_ but when he open his mouth to speak, Derek moves in and presses their lips together. It’s rough and sloppy because they’re both dead on their feet, but like Derek, it says a lot more than words. Uncertainty, loads and loads of uncertainty, anger, relief, wonder. A streak of slow-burning emotion that even unnamed makes him giddy. And it’s _scorching_ , in a way that burns right through him and bubbles up to the surface of his skin.

 

           Stiles is fairly sure he can muster up enough energy to stay like this all night, but then Derek is pulling back and their lips separate with a soft, wet sound. He only moves slightly to press his stubbled cheek against Stiles’s and breathes steadily.

 

           “Not that I mind,” Stiles manages, after a few attempts to jump-start his brain. “But what…?”

 

           “Always with the talking,” Derek complains, though his voice is tinged with amusement. “It got under my skin at first, but…”

 

           “Can’t resist the Stilinski charm,” Stiles finishes and Derek shakes his head in a minute motion of exasperation.

 

           “That first time. At the house.” Derek says. Whispers, really. “It wasn’t the fire. I was… for a moment, I thought I was going to lose another family. Lose _you_. It’s not the fire,” he repeats. “It can be pixies, Sigbins. Hunters. A damn car accident.”

 

           “Maybe you’ll need to lock me away in a tower. Just to be safe,” Stiles suggests.

 

           Derek rumbles a growl into his cheek. ‘If I thought that’d work, then I’d have done it a long time ago.”

 

           He makes a face. “Good luck with that, ‘cause you’re not getting rid of me that easily now.”

 

           “Yeah?” Derek mumbles.

 

           And, well, if Stiles is being honest with himself, he's not one to turn down something that has the potential to catch fire.

 

           “Yeah.”


End file.
